


As Nectar Trances Bees

by mellish



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT3, Pining, Slow Burn, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: Zagreus has a knack for being others’ exception.In which Thanatos grapples with his feelings, ignores relationship advice from everyone in hell, and spends a disproportionate amount of coin on centaur hearts.
Relationships: Megaera/Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 161





	As Nectar Trances Bees

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the main storyline and Zag's dating life; mostly canon compliant, but liberties, as always, were taken. This is OT3 but mostly about ThanZag, so warnings there.

0.

Zagreus calls him Than first. Everything else happens after.

i.

Thanatos finds out on his way back from a war that sees surrounding villages suffering pestilence that even Ares would call excessive; those who _aren’t_ dying swollen with sores or retching blood are almost certainly starved. It’s exhausting, tiresome business—there’s less begging than usual, but more weeping, which Than considers about as distasteful. When he returns to hell he’s not really in the mood for anything, much less gossip. It finds him anyway. Two shades feel it is their duty to tell him on his way down the corridor, but he doesn’t give it much credence until Hypnos, 0.2 seconds into a greeting, says, “And the _Prince_ , I’ve heard, is trying to make a break for the surface! I’ve already seen him come back from the dead _fourteen whole times!_ ”

“What,” Thanatos says, before deciding he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning. Besides, Hypnos is obviously saying this to avoid discussing his ridiculous task list.

“Oooh! There is he now—that’s _fifteen_ deaths already. I can’t lose my tally!”

It’s true: Zagreus is trudging up from the pool of Styx at the end of the hall, shaking blood from his hair. It splatters onto his father’s no-longer-immaculate flooring, pours down his forehead and shoulders in rivulets. The only reason Thanatos can see this in such detail, from this distance, is because he’s honed his vision hunting for souls to purge. Ahem. Zagreus sees him and waves. He seems annoyed, but somehow still in decent humor, despite the fact that he apparently just got stabbed to death by—“A metal spike this time? Have you tried dodging those?” Hypnos blinks at the house heir, hugely.

“Oh I was merely _too slow,_ I guess,” Zagreus answers, because he has an astounding amount of patience. “And hey, Than,” he adds, easily, breezily. Than has the urge to step back or disappear. “Been a while. Your missions have been quite intense recently, haven’t they? How are you?”

“Obviously better than you’re doing,” Than answers. He’s frowning. A trifle too deeply. “A metal _spike?_ ”

“Look, it’s not a big deal—”

“It says in my records it went _all the way through your right lung_ , that must have hurt a lot, huh!” Hypnos beams, proud at this level of grisly detail.

Zagreus winces, and Thanatos does too, but he’s already turning away so hopefully no one notices. All that, to reach the surface, with its suffering and cacophonies, and those hedonistic Olympians wreaking endless havoc? He’s disgusted. And concerned—a little, mostly for Zagreus’s sanity. Anyway he needs to process all of this, preferably somewhere private, so he starts down the hall. It must be fatigue that keeps him from teleporting away because Zagreus says a sharp word to Hypnos and catches up with him. The prince reaches out before he catches himself, and scuffs the back of his head instead. When Than glances at him, Zagreus already looks apologetic, like he’s bracing for harshness, which is—ugh.

“Than. Are you upset about something?”

“Not sure what makes you say that.”

“Well, you’re glaring at me, for starters.”

If Zagreus is exasperated, that makes two of them. “What’s this about you trying to escape your father’s domain?”

“Oh. That. Well, you’re excellent at your job, but I’m obviously terrible at mine, and I’ve gotten tired of father telling me so every single day. Since I’m such a bane upon his operations here I thought it might help to, you know. Go.”

Than stares at him blankly. “But you’ve _never_ been good at paperwork.”

“I—you—yes. You’re right.” Zagreus sighs. “Honestly, that’s only part of it. There’s—there’s something I must do.”

The _I-can’t-tell-you-what_ is implicit, and hurts more than it should. Than can’t quite help the chill in his voice as he says, “Fine. It’s none of my business.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” He stares at his prince, recently gored in the chest by a metal spike, wearing that troubled expression that he’s _always_ wearing around Thanatos, and—of course—he’s too bright to look at, too _alive_ to be around when Thanatos has just spent what mortals would define as _weeks_ harvesting the most wretched souls in existence. His exhaustion deepens, and with it, his curtness. “Excuse me, Prince Zagreus.”

“Than—“

But he finds that last bit of energy and teleports away. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of it.

ii.

It makes sense.

That’s what Than lands on, anyway, at the end of it. Zagreus might have been happy here—but that was a long time ago, before he and Hades were always at each other’s throats, and before he was expected to somehow contribute to the underworld’s operations. It was clear to everyone, from the start, that Zagreus would be an utter failure at pushing papers; it had been a momentous day for the shades when he finally quit (at least six of them had further lost their souls attempting to correct his shitty reports). Than hadn’t paid much attention to that mess when it was ongoing—Ares was up to something again on the surface, and Aphrodite apparently had a new champion that was slaying soldiers left and right. She always got the most derangedly determined ones.

So he’s not surprised that Zagreus wants to escape. It’s that he _knows_ Zagreus will suffer, knows his—friend (?)—friend, let’s go with that, is reckless and stupid and probably thinks nothing of the fact that getting acquainted with the twelve hundred odd permutations of death in his father’s realm isn’t exactly _a good idea._ Zagreus is incredibly kind, but he overestimates himself. Failing over and over might change his endless good cheer, make him more resentful than he not-so-secretly already is, and—there’s no way Hades will let him go. Than knows this.

It doesn’t help that Hypnos, during their rare meals together, takes great pleasure in recounting to Than the last six ways Zagreus has died. There’s been a pattern recently—Meg. Meg flaying the life out of him with her whip. Thanatos owes Meg a drink, but for this—maybe not.

“That woman’s _whip_ is getting a workout!” Hypnos says, gleefully, before passing out into a bowl of porridge.

Unfortunately, Zagreus apparently has unlimited tolerance for having his ass kicked. Apparently death teaches him nothing. This is more cause for concern, but Than manages to hold his tongue...at least until he finds out how exactly Zagreus is getting so far.

“You can’t trust those gods,” he tells Zagreus, after attempt thirty-two. It’s Zag who comes to find him at his favorite spot, stretching those ridiculous arms over his head.

“Who? My family?”

 _Yes, those disasters_ , Than doesn’t say.

“Oh, I know they’re a lot, but I’ve got it handled,” Zagreus, moments after having his chest cleaved open by a wretch, declares. “They’re not so bad once you’ve spoken to them a few times. Though I hate how much they fight each other. Guess that explains father’s temperament some, too.”

This isn’t a conversation. Than attempts to imply this.

“You don’t have to worry,” Zagreus continues, brazen. That is such a baseless, frankly _insulting_ insinuation—Thanatos, _worried_ about hell’s irresponsible princeling?!—that he does not dignify it with a response. Zagreus notices. “Er, not that I think you’re worrying.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“Woah, you’re starting to sound a bit like Meg there.”

Somehow this makes Than feel like shit. _He’s_ not the one cracking Zag’s head open regularly, then getting praised as employee of the month. He turns away, abruptly, because in the past this has somehow successfully sent Zagreus elsewhere. This time, though, Zagreus steps closer. His voice gets soft and low. “Look, I can’t read your mind, Than. What’s the problem here?”

“I think you should stop.”

“Stop trying to escape, you mean? And why?”

 _Because it’s futile. Because I hate hearing the details of how you die; I have no professional interest in hearing such stories if they’re about you. Because you’re too reckless and too kind, always, and those things don’t mean you’ll make it eventually. All they mean is that you'll suffer and suffer. Because I know I’m not enough to keep you here, I never was. Because if you do beat the odds and go_ —

“Because you’re going to keep failing,” he says, and disappears, which, unlike looking away, has a guaranteed success rate. It’s necessary, because a dangerous thought flits into Than’s brain. He has to vanish before he mistakenly vocalizes it: all this is because he actually thinks Zagreus _will_ succeed, in the end. It’s not that he wants the prince to fail. It’s that he wants Zagreus to stay.

iii.

Zagreus eventually saves up enough to re-purchase the bonds of the court musician. Orpheus sits silently in his alcove, leaning dramatically against his harp, plucking a string every now and then, until Hades says, “For pity’s sake, man, if you’re not going to play, get out of my hall. I’m doing end-of-season accounting and _cannot_ concentrate.” Hades could have gone on a much more terrible tirade, but despite appearances, the master of hell has always had a soft spot for beautiful things, among them Orpheus’s songs. The unfortunate result of this is Orpheus slinking over to the West Hall, crouching by a pillar, strumming once with absolutely no effort, and sighing deep enough to expel whatever’s left of his undead breath.

Because Than is not the best at conversation but he _also_ needs to concentrate on finishing his report, which necessitates Silence, he cannot help his mirroring sigh.

“Oh, Thanatos,” Orpheus says. “I did not see you there. Hello. How are you.”

“Fine.”

“I suppose it’s all quite busy up on the surface then. More wars and such.”

“Yes.”

“And could it be that you are waiting at the moment for Prince Zagreus? I _do_ believe he’s getting further and further along these days, don’t you? There’s quite a long gap now between him leaving, and him respawning in the Styx. I suppose I shall have to compose a song about his powerful stamina, one of these days.”

“I don’t know if it’s stamina so much as idiocy.”

“Why, Thanatos, I should say that’s a slightly ungenerous view of our prince.”

It irks him that people in this house think they’ve got something to say about him and Zagreus. Like they know something he _doesn’t_. “You know as well as I do, Orpheus, about Zagreus’s impulses, and how much that’s cost him. _Is_ costing him.” Unbidden, he has a memory of Hypnos chirping _oh, woah, squashed to death by a skull-crusher! Your bones must have been smashed!_

“That I do, Thanatos.” He plucks two strings dolefully, then rests his head against his instrument. “It makes for a rather sweeping song, but I _am_ anxious for our prince to—well—not be in too much pain. I do not blame you for being sorrowful, my friend.”

“I’m not sorrowful.” Irritably, he adds, “Also, I’m not waiting for him. I always rest here. This is my spot.”

“Do you know, Thanatos, I let go of my love once.” This tangent is uncalled for; Orpheus is obviously not listening to him. “My muse, rather. We were so close to the surface and then I ruined everything. I know it is my fault. It’s why I don’t deserve to sing any longer.”

Thanatos has heard this story. He recalls Eurydice, too. She raised her head proudly the whole boat ride to Asphodel, and asked for Than’s opinion on bedsheets while she fitted out her abode— _if I’m going to sweat in hell, might as well make the place cute, right?_ Orpheus blaming himself for everything isn’t new, but speaking of his nymph—that’s different. It’s the obvious hand of Zagreus, meddling in everything, _trying to fix things_. Thanatos doesn’t know how he has all that energy. (“I’ll sleep when I’m dead!” Zagreus declared once, unnecessarily fake-punching a couch.)

“It couldn’t have been any different,” Thanatos tells the court musician, honesty being his preferred method of comforting others.

“Oh, no, it could have been.” Orpheus runs his hands through all his harp strings; it shouldn’t sound good, but somehow the tune comes out flawless, coaxed by magic, a blended note of utter hurt. The smile on his face is wan, dead as a flower upon his purple lips. “I could have trusted her.”

iv.

In hindsight, he doesn’t see how Zagreus could have believed Nyx was his mother for as long as he did. Certainly the whole house kept up the lie, Thanatos included, but there really was very little of her in him, at least when it came to distinct cthonicness. But they _do _share a certain kindness between them, a compulsion to do what’s right: Nyx quietly, subtly, pulling on the many thousand strings at her disposal; Zagreus with unintended flashiness, because although he’ll do the right thing regardless, he is not opposed to head pats. Sometimes Thanatos sees Zagreus talking to his mother, shoulders relaxed, carelessly deferent, and he’ll feel some interminable squeeze in his chest, dreadful and chilly. Left to his own preferences Thanatos simply wouldn’t feel at all, so the torrent when he sees two people he—cares deeply for—together…is pretty unbearable.__

____

____

Zagreus isn’t around for long, of course. He never is. This time he stops just long enough to give the chef some fish, and say hi to Dusa, who promptly flees into the rafters (honestly, Than wishes he did not relate to this—but he truly, truly does). Lastly Zag gives Nyx a jar of nectar with a very earnest, “Nyx, thanks, look here, I wouldn’t be getting as far as I am without you. I owe you a good deal more than this, so—take it? All right? For me?”

“Child—”

“I’d better go see if I’ve uncovered that new aspect for the shield. Til next time, Nyx.” And off he dashes, leaving a line of tiny flames running down the corridor to his room. Making hell that much less bright. A setting Thanatos certainly _prefers_.

“Why are you lurking at the entrance to the lounge, my child?”

“Mother.” There aren’t many people that can make death feel caught (or sheepish). But Nyx is not people. He clears his throat. “I suppose that was Zagreus running off again.”

She smiles at him, as warm as a cold one can be, palming the little sparkling jar of nectar.

“Yes, child. I’d offer you some of the nectar he gave me, but I’ve no doubt that if he encounters you, he’d gladly give you some on his own.” She blinks. “Are you…hiding, from him?”

“No,” Thanatos says. “I was simply, er. Getting a drink from the chef. Poseidon threw a tantrum and drowned half a coastal village. It’s been…tiring.”

“I can only imagine, my son.”

“Nyx,” he starts. Stops. Starts again, feeling still more foolish. “Why are you helping him?”

Nyx levels him with a long, thoughtful look. She has always been inscrutable. The glimmers of tenderness that emerge whenever she speaks with her children are about the only thing Thanatos can discern in her with confidence; the rest of the time he has no idea what she’s actually thinking. (“I bet she’s thinking about _dessert_ ,” Hypnos said, helpfully, once. He was halfway through an ice cream at that very moment so Thanatos did not put much store in this opinion.) Nyx intuits this, like she does everything, because she says, “There’s no need to try to figure me out, Thanatos. I always speak plainly. And I always share what is on my mind, if it is within my rights to share. This time it is not, at least not in its entirety; there is something Zagreus is trying to do, that I would very much like him to do. Perhaps selfishly. But I’ve no doubt he will succeed, and his success is necessary. Have you ever known me to do things without purpose?”

“Never,” he says, though he feels more anxious now, that even Nyx can’t answer him straight. He wasn’t lying about the drowned village, either; he’s been escorting waterlogged, shell-shocked souls for days, and in his brief periods of rest, when he closes his eyes, all he can think about is Zagreus getting smashed by the hydra, or burning to a crisp in magma. There’s a puzzle here, some secret code between Zagreus and Nyx, a thread trailing to somewhere he doesn’t yet know. Thanatos has the distinct feeling that trying to unravel it could cause disaster. Besides, he doesn’t have the time.

Nyx appears to think he needs further soothing. “He’ll always be tied to the Underworld, no matter what,” she says, which doesn’t clarify anything. It doesn’t reassure Thanatos either, but he takes it anyway, doesn’t tell her that despite all his mixed up-feelings, he’s _grateful_ she’s been bestowing favors on her adopted son, using her powers of the night to make it easier on him. Gods know Zagreus needs it.

v.

It occurs to him between missions one time: he could, if he wanted to, just go _see_ Zagreus. While he’s on one of those ill-fated escape attempts. There’s nothing stopping him. At any point, he could very well drop into Tartarus, or Asphodel, or Elysium—which is where he finds Zagreus, taking laborious swipes at a soul catcher. The butterfly ball splatters into another death, and a giant flame chariot takes its place, charging at hell’s prince so that he slams into a wall and gets impaled by two different spears. He lurches off them admirably and continues fighting. There’s some kind of sticky energy to Zagreus’ gauntlets that emanates flashes of pink light, and the punched-up chariot seems weaker, slightly dizzied, as he keeps going. He’s still bleeding from his shoulderblades, at which point Thanatos jumps in and slashes the flame chariot to ribbons.

“Thanatos!” Zagreus says—happily, despite the trickle of blood running down his chin. He doesn’t have time to wipe it because a brightshield generates near them, making little aggressive sounds as it tries to smack Zagreus away. Thanatos gets behind it, while it's occupied with trying to obliterate Zagreus, and cuts it clean in half. There’s a brief moment when Zagreus puts his hands up, still expecting to fight, but nothing else happens.

The silence stretches. All is quiet, for now, except for a faint ping somewhere in the roiling cloud-waters nearby. (Fish, he learns later. Somehow Zagreus has taken up fishing. He is a fount of hobbies.)

The prince exhales. “Thanks, Than.”

After a moment in which he considers simply leaving without a word, Than answers, “Do you get this beaten up in every chamber?”

“No…otherwise I wouldn’t have made it all the way here. I got caught off-guard, that’s all.” He finally rubs the blood off his chin, with one thoughtless swipe of his arm. “There was a splitter, and—anyway—what are you doing here, actually?”

“Just passing through,” Thanatos says.

“Oh, well. It’s great to see you.” The faint color on his cheeks shouldn’t be as damnably endearing as it is, and Thanatos hates himself. Why does Zagreus have to look like _that_ when he looks at him?

“Here. Take this. You look like you could use it.” It’s a piece of centaur’s heart, which Thanatos has been carrying around for no particular reason, except that maybe he was hoping to encounter Zagreus. It’s supposed to extend demi-mortals a kind of additive vitality; it pulses brightly in his hand as he holds it out, looking slightly away, because if he actually _looks at Zagreus_ he’ll feel—something. Hopeful. Hurt. All those useless things that surface in him when he looks upon his master’s son. “Anyway you slew more monsters than me, so—consider it a reward.”

“Making this a bit of a contest?” Zag steps closer than necessary to take the offering. “I’ll pretend that’s because it makes it more fun for you, and not because you don’t want to give it.”

Thanatos does not _quip_. He also does not give into the urge to throw the centaur heart on the ground, like a tantruming child. There are only two people in the world who can bring out those terrible impulses in him: Hypnos, being insufferably obtuse; and Zagreus, doing just about anything. He feels it lift from his fingers—Zagreus is so careful not to touch him—and when Zagreus takes it into himself Thanatos hears his small, inadvertent sigh of relief. “That’s a nice little boost,” he says, generously, even if it’s hardly anything—certainly not enough to keep him from death. (But if he does die, he goes back home.)

He hasn’t stepped away yet, which should be enough of a warning, but Thanatos still shudders all over when Zagreus reaches out and strokes his arm. It’s a touch with no purpose, his fingers skimming down Than’s shoulder to his elbow, to his wrist. It’s so _slow_. Zagreus feels death’s shudder, and looks up, uncertainty writ all over his face. Thanatos is promptly distracted by the little flames dancing around his circlet of golden leaves.

“I’ve got to—I have to—go,” Thanatos says. ( _Not_ stammers. Death doesn’t stammer.)

Zagreus opens his mouth. Thanatos barely catches his own name as he vanishes; there’s a quality to the syllables that makes him panic, and his arm has not stopped burning from the prince’s touch.

vi.

So fine. Yes. Thanatos has a problem. A problem that runs around the underworld with a matey smile, a sweet word for everyone, a little too much cleverness beneath that at-ease attitude: Zagreus is so _okay_ , so accepting, so wide-eyed. So _good_. Of course everyone loves him (his father, and the shades in the office, excepting).

This is unacceptable to Thanatos, all of it: the shared admiration for hell’s prince, like an infectious disease; and the fact that he’s a sucker for Zagreus like the rest of them.

Because he so clearly _is_.

Not that he’d say this to anyone. Not that there’s anyone to say this to. _I’d rather die_ , he thinks, ironically, yes, but it’s the thought that counts. Now that he isn’t denying it to himself, it’s clear that this is a truth he must safeguard for eternity. The only problem is, he thinks Hypnos might have caught on. And because it’s Hypnos, he’s _not_ awfully subtle about it. Thanatos first gets this inkling one time when they’re having dinner together: it’s a rare day in the palace for Charon, who generally keeps to himself, and every so often makes a thoughtful _hrnnn_ sound at the blood pudding Nyx has made for them, a recipe apparently obtained from one of the Fates. (“I thought this would be _sweet!_ ” Hypnos said, cheerfully offended, after taking his first bite.) Nyx insists on these formal family gatherings every so often, partly out of a desire to make them all interact _at least occasionally_ , and partly, Thanatos suspects, becuase Nyx thrives on awkward situations, as long as she is not at the center of them. Awkward is a strange word for the three sons of Night Incarnate, but glancing across the table at his two brothers, he isn’t sure what else to call this.

After his initial pudding-betrayal Hypnos has brightened considerably and is now cheerfully snacking away. “I am so glad _it is not fish_ ,” he chirps. “The chef has been cooking _so much fish_. Because Prince Zagreus brings him new ones constantly, and I think the head chef has a crush on him, and simply cannot bring himself to say: _prince! We are all sick of fish!_ ”

Thanatos feels his stomach start to flip at this turn of conversation.

“Charon, you’re sick of fish too, aren’t you?”

“Krhhhh. Heooohhrrr.”

“I _know_! So many knuckleheads! Though I do have to say that slavug salad can be pretty tasty. Thanatos, _you_ wouldn’t happen to be capable of telling Zagreus to ease up on the fishing every now and then, would you?”

“Why would I?” Thanatos says, watching Nyx dab the corners of her mouth. Would she be offended if he left before dessert? Would dessert be an actual pudding?

“Well, it’s just that _I know_ you see him out all the time, that you’ve been trading some of your coin for a steady supply of centaur hearts recently. Even if Charon here ab-so- _lutely_ refuses to give us any kind of family discount.”

Thanatos does not try to be particularly discreet about his activities, mostly because they are inconsequential and he forgets that anyone cares. He realizes with a terrible, static jolt, that somehow the entire Underworld seems _very_ invested in Death’s business when it has to do with a certain prince of hell. The aforementioned plaguelike infatuation makes everyone hopeful, even if Zagreus treats _everyone_ with a blanket sweetness. Somehow, when he’s talking to you, angling that unlawful body towards you and gazing meaningfully into your eyes, it really does feel like you’re the most valuable thing in the universe. It’s bad enough Thanatos knows his own feelings and _doesn’t like them_. To have the rest of the palace guessing (and sympathizing) makes everything worse.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Thanatos,” Nyx says, calm as a lake in winter. “To be helping Zagreus in his attempts. I would not have expected it.”

“Exactly, brother. Especially because you’re always whining about not having any time!”

“Hhhrrrngggghhh.”

Thanatos feels injured about _whining_. He eats a mouthful of pudding to calm himself, before saying, “Only when I’m passing through the same place. It’s not such a big deal. And the centaur hearts are simply—they—he often seems to need them.” Finding his trump card, he adds, “Besides, I only give it if he beats me in a contest to defeat more monsters.”

“ _Very_ nice! Even if in trying to beat your record _I’m sure_ he gets beaten up pretty badly sometimes!”

That’s true, but Thanatos isn’t a soft touch. He also remains, despite efforts, somewhat terrified of his boss and the possibility that he’ll be threatened with corrective action for assisting the god’s profligate offspring. He doesn’t have Nyx’s immunity, so he conducts this trial instead. There is no Greek god that doesn’t love a little trial, Hades included. “It doesn’t mean anything much,” Thanatos mumbles. Nyx looks distantly away, giving him space. Charon takes a sip of wine that disappears somewhere in the abyss of his face.

Hypnos says: “Well, brother, I don’t know about that! Listen, I don’t really _enter_ dreams, but I’m pretty sure one time I was passing on my way to the administrative chamber and you were having a _nap_ , and you said Prince Zagreus’ name! That’s _got_ to mean something.”

Thanatos feels like Demeter has prodded his head and turned his spine into a frozen column. It is with great effort that he replies, “It was a nightmare. Of him being chopped in half by Asterius.”

“Didn’t he get you Asterius’ signature, my son?” Nyx, ever delicate, rests her chin on her hands and looks at her curly-haired child. Thanatos feels, for the enth time, aggrieved that they are related.

“As a matter of fact he did! It is now one of my most prized possessions! Want to see?”

Thanatos finally excuses himself, saying he has to make a stop by the forge to get his scythe checked out; besides, he’s already seen the Asterius autograph three times.

Zagreus _is_ getting closer to the surface. Satyr is the usual cause of death, now, if it’s not Theseus ramming that spear through his eager but fragile heart. Thanatos feels an avalanche of conflicting feelings: proud of him, worried, _incredibly upset_ , with a good dash of anger. He can let none of those show, which means absolutely no more naps during downtime, not even if Zagreus—curiously—got him a recliner with a brisk, “Thought you could use it, Than.”

Than’s not lying about the Asterius-slicing dream too. But it’s terrifying to think Hypnos might be able to intuit his dreams _at all_ , and now that the idea has been implanted in his brain—much as he’d rather it not be—Zagreus is bound to show up in them…differently. Soft-eyed, slightly out of breath, voice trembling, curving one arm to brush Than’s jaw—ugh. _Ugh_. As if he isn’t on his mind every waking moment already.

vii.

Achilles is something of a trophy soul for the house. The great warrior of the Greek forces, that miraculous sword hand. Every so often, on the surface, Thanatos hears someone invoking his name before charging into battle; or using it to embellish a long and otherwise boring poem. They have much to say about his prowess on the battlefield, though many verses are spent on his beautiful face and “exquisite set of abs.” (That poet: one of Dionysus’s.) He imagines they’d be surprised to find their beloved hero not fearsomely battling souls in the glory chambers of Elysium, but quietly tending to house affairs, here in the much more corporate offices of Hades. He seemed very reluctant to take up the sword in any way. Zagreus is his only exception: the one student who made him handle a spear again, and a sword, and a shield, laughing in nostalgic delight as the weapons came to life in his hands.

Zagreus has a knack for being others’ exception.

Thanatos respects Achilles, for his professional prowess and calm demeanor both. There is little that can rankle the forgotten warrior. Thanatos has slight PTSD from that awful night at Troy; escorting civilians with their throats cut, women broken beyond all reckoning, kids with their heads bashed in. He isn’t sure if Achilles made it to that night. What he’d heard from the gods, unasked-for, was that Achilles was beyond relieved to go when he did. The warrior carries his regret and weariness like a magnificent mantle. It plucks at the corner of his sad, tired smiles; it somehow makes him appear more noble, where normally it would deflate a lesser man.

All that for a singular soul. Thanatos didn’t escort Achilles’s partner into death, either; nor is he privy in any way to the details of Achilles’s arrangement with Hades. But once or twice, on his trips through Elysium, he has seen the fallen warrior lying on a grassy plain, looking beyond discontented. He doesn’t know how he realized this man owned Achilles’s heart, except there was a certain…sameness to them, to their spirit, intact even in death, rather awe-inspiring to witness. They’ve been apart, for the eternities that it must feel like for souls—and yet remain so tethered, somehow. Thanatos has no wish to understand it.

So it’s more than a little alarming when Achilles says to him, one time, “A word, Thanatos?”

He looks up in surprise from where he’s filling out a thirty-page report, going cross-eyed over a poorly written soul ledger. “Achilles. What can I do for you?”

“The prince,” Achilles starts, and it’s strange, to see the warrior hesitate, if that’s what it is. Stranger still to see that smile play out on his face, nostalgic and pained. “I know he’s been trying to reach the surface lately, and…suffering a lot for it. I know the only reason he can make the attempts is because I taught him how to fight. You might think it a little cruel of me, to let my student suffer so.”

Thanatos wants to flee this conversation, but his respect for Achilles holds him in place. “It’s not suffering,” Thanatos says, tiredly. “He gets hurt, yes. But I don’t blame you for that. Zagreus is making a choice. He is every time.”

“That’s true. But I suspect it doesn’t stop you from worrying about him.”

Something about the fallen hero makes it difficult to lie to him. Thanatos manages a clipped, “Are you going to tell me not to, like everyone else? Or that I have no right to?”

There it is again: that sad smile, too gentle. “Is that what people have been telling you?”

Thanatos looks down, frowning. He shouldn’t feel so betrayed. Achilles was only doing what Lord Hades asked when he taught Zagreus to fight, and—he’s the only reason, ultimately, that Zagreus stands a chance. The skills he imparted. Zag’s own recklessness, too, of course.

“Apologies, I didn’t come to make you feel bad. It’s not my place to give anyone any kind of advice, not after what I’ve done, but. The one I loved. He shared some qualities with Prince Zagreus. Kindness…a kind of level-headedness. I didn’t listen to him when I should have. And I didn’t speak to him either. I know—” he talks quickly, noticing Than’s head lift and his eyes sharpen. “—it’s not the same thing. And he and the prince are _very_ different in other ways.” He chuckles to himself, which is alarming. “Still, I wanted to tell you…I could have spared myself a lot of grief, had I been a little more understanding. Had I asked more questions, or let go of my own pride, sometimes.”

Thanatos watches the grief, which briefly cleared from the warrior’s face, come back in a slowly curling wave, the memories brushing up endlessly against the shores of his existence. He remembers hearing the warrior in Elysium muttering to himself: _one sip and all would be forgotten. One sip and I could rest. And yet._

The things men do to themselves. The promises they make and the sorrows they endure. All for a singular soul. Half of a heart, and not even a living one.

Thanatos surprises himself asking: “And still, you’d rather not forget?”

Achilles looks surprised at this, though it’s not clear whether it’s the question or the fact that Death is asking. There’s a silence, broken at last by the sound of something splashing to the surface back in the great hall, then a long, exhausted groan.

“No,” Achilles answers, turning away. “He was, and always will be, worth it.”

viii.

“This house,” Meg says, “is full of moping men who can’t get their shit together.”

Than can’t tell if she’s in a good mood or not. They’re in the lounge, after-hours; she mixed three things together in a shaker for them both, and it’s doing funny things to Than’s consciousness. Were these drapes always so blood-colored? Was the pattern on that rug always so majestic?

“I mean you too, Thanatos,” Meg says crossly. She’s smiling, even if her voice is acid. So she _is_ probably in a good mood, and more than a little affected by her own ambrosia concoction, too.

“That’s offensive, Megaera,” he answers, not as imperiously as he’d like.

“Tough shit. You might be the worst of them. Looking so pained and running away every time you see Zag—do you know how much that hurts him?” She leans in closer, across the table; Thanatos glances around, afraid of who might be lurking nearby, but the Wretched Broker has packed up for the night and even the chef is out for his smoke break. When did they get an aquarium? Meg taps on the table, pointedly, with two of her fingers. “Thanatos.”

“It’s his fault,” he answers, wretched as the broker. “He’s not telling me what he’s up to. And you know I hate him getting hurt. Even if it’s you.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “You boys are such babies. A little pain never hurt anyone.”

“You think that because you’re a Fury.”

“And you’re _death_ , Than.”

He doesn’t know when she started calling him that, too. Or when he started to like it.

“Even Dusa thinks you ought to stop moping and tell him how you feel.” She doesn’t get any softer, Meg never does, but the harsh judgement in her eyes is pitying, which is the closest she probably gets.

“Dusa? You told her about this?”

“I tell Dusa everything.”

“It’s not that simple,” he says, despairing. “I mean—I don’t even know how I feel. I don’t know what there is to say.”

Meg’s mouth is ajar. Her look has gone past disgusted into straight-up repulsed. “Thanatos. Are you an idiot? Tell me you’re not an idiot.”

“He told me he doesn’t know what I am to him!”

“ _How_ much ambrosia has he given you so far? And how much of your wages have you blown on those stupid centaur hearts? Look, I know _Zag_ has trouble talking when he finds someone hot, but the Death I know isn’t so whipped he can’t admit the most obvious thing in the world to himself.” Drunken Meg talks a lot more freely than Sober Meg, but she’s just as vehement. Luckily Than is too muzzy to be intimidated.

He longs to tell her that he knows he’s being stupid; he understands his own feelings now, and he only didn’t for so long because they scared him. Even _thinking_ that, admitting it to himself, is embarrassing to the point that it’s unbearable. To say it aloud would absolutely finish the shredded self-respect Than still possesses. Also, Meg’s ambrosia-whatever is making him terribly dramatic. He fights through rising desperation, intent on defending himself, but instead he murmurs, “Aphrodite…”

“What?”

He puts his head down on the table, and mumbles, “Aphrodite. I ran into her on the surface last time. She said _you let that cute little godling know that I’m waiting for him. There are SO many lords and ladies here dying to meet him._ The way she dragged out that _so_ , Meg. And the way she said _dying_ , to offend me!”

“Oh gods, you’re hopeless.” She nudges his head, not gently, so that she can see his face. “Than. If you’re so worried about him seeing other people, you’ve got to tie him down.”

He blinks at her. “What? With rope?” Meg’s the one with a whip, and a Lord-Hades-mandated order to literally restrain Zag with it. Easy for her to say.

“No, idiot. With _your body._ ”

Than literally chokes on nothing. Meg sighs, drains her drink, then reaches over and takes the cherry from his.

Later they stagger off to Than’s quarters, because they’re closer. He admits he’s leaning more on her than vice versa. It’s _easy_ with Meg, because of their friendship; he never feels confused about her, and his feelings only flicker from slightly nervous to warm. He cares for Maegara, in his own way, and she cares for him, _in her own very particular way_ , and none of that would’ve probably happened if not for—yet again—Zagreus.

“Meg,” Than says, hopefully not slurring. “You ought not to lecture me. You’re a mess about him too.”

Meg snorts. “No, Than. Whatever’s going on with me and Zag, I’ve got it in hand. Worry ‘bout yourself.”

Is it really so easy for her? To feel what she feels, and not expire over it? That can’t possibly be true, but what he knows about Meg and Zagreus is that they’re much better than him at taking what they want.

She rolls over until they’re pressed close together and flicks him on the forehead, once, brutally. Only Meg can get away with such things. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” she says. Thanatos sighs and embraces her, attempting to shut her up, but she keeps going. At least she sounds sleepy. “It’s pretty simple. _Zag_ ’s feelings are simple. And honestly, so are yours.”

ix.

The palace is different with Lady Persephone back in it.

Zag has been improving their interior design for awhile now, making flower petals tumble dramatically over the Pool of Styx, giving Cerberus a giant rubber ball, even installing a chaise lounge for Hypnos to take his all-too-frequent naps in. But all these additions somehow do not add up to the Queen’s bright smile and easy laughter as she sweeps into the hall, greeting all the shades like she knows them _personally_ , and diminishing some of the perpetual ragecloud that hovers over her infernal husband. He’s the biggest change, truthfully: the line of his shoulders no longer so incredibly taut, the alarming thunder of his laughter now sometimes echoing down the hall, making new penitents quaver in distress.

Zagreus and his father still bristle at each other; Lord Hades still struggles with civil conversations. Than knows Redacted still wins sometimes, though it boggles his mind that other times—somehow—they’re evenly matched. Zag doesn’t even _gloat_ about what he’s accomplished. Mostly he’s incandescently happy, having obtained a mother, a full-time job, and a slightly less contentious relationship with his father, all in one fell swoop. Thanatos, in between missions, sometimes hears the prince and his mother laughing in the newly-opened garden, exchanging stories about the surface or everything Persephone missed in her time away (“So Cerberus once dragged off these new purple drapes from the lounge because they smelled like smoked meat, and you should’ve _seen_ father, he was livid…”). Occasionally Nyx is there too—Nyx, whose unperturbed solemnity nevertheless has a tinge of pure _delight_ these days—and she looks at the new addition (re-addition?) to their house with reverence and joy.

 _Your family is here,_ Thanatos told Zagreus once. They were both right.

And Zag remains here—still getting the shit beaten out of him regularly, but Than has now embraced the unfortunate reality that, well, Zag doesn’t mind it. It’s a hazard of the job, which _definitely_ suits him better than working in the archives or wrestling with filing cabinets. It lets him use the martial skills he grew up perfecting, and despite never lasting too long on the surface—Than should’ve _known_ it wouldn’t be so simple—he seems content to explore briefly, water his mother’s crops, and sometimes catch a trout or two (thus far, no one has yet been able to say that they are sick of fish). Thanatos still sees him out on the field, still fights side by side with him, and even he can admit that those moments are pure adrenaline, though he’ll never enjoy seeing Zag get struck with a brightsword full in the chest.

“I’m going to keep doing this,” Thanatos tells Zagreus, because that’s about as honest as he can be. Zag’s eyes are sweeter than ambrosia when he looks at Than, and it’s all he can do not to dissolve into nothing.

“We can take our time, Than,” Zag says, still with that terrible honey in his eyes. It’s those words, more than anything, that makes Than realize: he’s finally, _finally_ tired of waiting.

∞

 _Than,_ Zagreus calls him, ages and ages ago. Quick-limbed, flame-footed, one eye bright as blood and the other a curious, charming green: an endless Elysium field, or the shade of the ocean close to the shore, that sparkling stretch of water Zagreus—back then—had never seen. Thanatos didn’t know how to respond then, like he barely knows how to respond now. Thanatos, in front of Zagreus, is forever coming undone.

He has never frayed before. Where did Zagreus find that thread to take him apart like this? He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, doesn’t realize. All he does is tip his head to the side when Death looks back at him, distressed, and smiles, as if to say: _I called, you responded. You whom I have named._

These halls their home. The secret Thanatos can’t tell him, another secret sliding against it, the silence of what’s held. When did he ever want to tell someone anything, before? Thanatos, by his nature and the necessity of his role, has only known to bear things, to do his job, even at the height of its unpleasantness, to serve his purpose, to work. He does not take his station lightly. He does not know lightness, until: _Than, why are you looking at me like that?_

 _What did you call me,_ he thinks, but instead he says, _Zag,_ testing an echo, dipping his toe into something uncertain, electric.

_Yeah?_

Than called; he responded.

_Nothing. Did you—didn’t you call me just now?_

_I did, I—_ Zagreus is crossing over to stand before him, _curious_ about him, already so familiar. _You’re so busy these days, I wondered if you had a moment._

_For what?_

_For—whatever you want. Some contraband_ (an impish smile with this—he’s barely old enough yet, alcohol still excites him overmuch) _. A little sparring match. Or nothing._

There are so many reasons for Thanatos to say no, but for some reason, looking at Zagreus, he wants to use none of them. So he doesn’t. (And this is what teaches him; this is where he learns that it’s okay to set things down for a while. To rest. To breathe. To live a little, if he were trying for irony.) He puts his scythe down and scuffs a hand through his hair and says, _Well?_

They do nothing of consequence, but it does not feel like time wasted to Thanatos. In the end he feels like he’s gained a friend, a new name, and…something else he can’t put words to, that flares whenever Zagreus says that name, that he never asked for, that he still can’t fully claim, wondering if he has a right to it, doubtful and hopeful at once.

x.

So it is that he finds himself in Zagreus’s tragically messy room, standing like a dope, wondering what the hell he’s going to say when the prince gets here—which both takes forever and happens sooner than expected.

“It’s really good to see you,” Zag says. He’s caught his breath sometime between emerging from the Styx and arriving here, but there’s some shortness about it, tense and—maybe this is Than hoping—slightly eager.

It’s agony, saying what he wants to say, seeing the concern in Zagreus’s eyes when he answers, “I’ll wait for you however long it takes.” Thanatos knows _why_ he holds back. Knows why Zagreus doesn’t want to rush things, and maybe it would have flattered him before, to be handled this way, but in this room and with everything they’ve endured, he suddenly doesn’t have the patience.

“I’m here already,” he says, every muscle tensed. “Right?”

A multitude of feelings flicker across Zagreus’s face, as he draws closer, still more tentative than Thanatos wants. “I’m glad,” he says, as Thanatos, trying not to be embarrassed, reaches out to touch the plane of Zag’s chest like he’s wanted for a good long while, to feel the rapid heartbeat there, so utterly alive against Death’s touch. It’s the contact that finally gets Zag’s caution to splinter a little, and Thanatos moves closer, searching for the want that mirrors his own: _is there any way I, too, can make you come undone? Are there words I can say to make you shiver?_ Only it’s too hard to be calculating, too tiring to be cool, when he finally places his lips against Zag’s, because he has always known: _he’s_ the one who has to stop running, and close the gap.

Suddenly those hands are on Than’s hips, steering him a little too expertly towards the bed; those lips, insistent, persistent, borderline feral; his silk being pulled down one shoulder, and for a second Thanatos thinks: _too fast, slow down_ , then he can’t think at all, because Zagreus is kissing him like they’re out of time, and his skin is so hot—it’s always been—all that blood running through him, that startling shade of red like a human’s. Than—pinned between him and the sheets, struggling to catch his breath, finally concedes to this sudden, animal hunger: he wants nothing more than to catch fire.

∞

He tells Meg about it the next time they’re in the lounge together. It’s not quite after-hours, but it’s empty enough. Meg smiles (a scary thing to witness), all exhausted delight, and says, “Fucking finally.”

“I’m not sure...” he starts, and Meg narrows her eyes at him. “…that it’ll last. It’s too good, Megaera. _He’s_ too good.”

“I want to kick your ass, but looking at your face, I can’t even bear to.” She takes a sip of whatever she made this time—just as fruity, but thankfully less potent. “Than. Instead of complaining that he’s too good, maybe just accept that he wants you anyway, and try to deserve it?”

This somehow makes him recall: waking up to Zagreus’s arms around him, and his sleepy murmur of: _I meant what I said. This isn’t an impulsive thing for me. All right? Than?_

 _All right,_ he answered, then promptly spent the rest of his day wanting to die. Tough luck for him, obviously.

“I hate when you’re right,” he mutters.

“I appreciate being the eternal subject of your loathing, then.”

She’s starting to sound a little like him. Maybe they all are.

In the hall’s silence there’s suddenly a ringing splash, a wry _ha-ha-ha_ and the slap of bloody feet against the tiles, then the inevitable chirp of: “Prince! You’re home!”

Meg looks at him and smirks. He clinks his glass against hers, and thinks, _Damn straight he is._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Poor Butterfly by Leslie Dykstra: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=16751
> 
> As I told strikinglight, who put up with my wretched grumbling throughout this draft: I belatedly believe I wrote this whole thing as an extended roast of Thanatos.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Comments are always very greatly appreciated. On the off-chance that you’d like to riff off this with your own transformative work, that would be awesome--all I ask is that you kindly credit! Thank you! <3


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